“Out, dear.”
“Then we are all right. Did you expect me?”
“No, dear. Let me make you some tea.”
“No; stop here. Didn’t you expect this?”
He drew a note from his breast.
“That note? No, dear. Who is it from?”
Fred Denville looked his sister searchingly in the face, and its innocent candid expression satisfied him, and he drew a sigh full of relief.
“If it had been May who looked at me like that, I should have said she was telling me a lie.”
“Oh, Fred!”
“Bah! You know it’s true. Little wax-doll imp. But I believe you, Claire. Fate’s playing us strange tricks. I am James Bell, Major Rockley’s servant, and he trusts me with his commissions. This is a billet-doux—a love-letter—to my sister, which my master sends, and I am to wait for an answer.”